Apr 29 2017

stunned (and/or)

like the bird
bouncing off
the top studio window
or the tree
bent broken fallen
from harsh storm
and
the grandmother
hearing news
of World War III
or the 12-year-old girl
standing cold
in a dress
called provocative
in a country
still reeling
from impossible
truths

100 days
is a phrase

with no rhyme

or right

reason

.

.

.


Apr 28 2017

at least once a day

as if the sun carried stars
and the moon
danced with shadow

or your smile
meant the joke
it once
implied

the way we wandered
through the streets
of a city left by
rome

holding flowers
in damp palms
limp with longing

.
.
.


Apr 27 2017

in stereo

the wind shifts and

the tree frogs
are talking
to each other

warning of storm
and change
in a musical portent
of danger

i sit in this

spot

listening

shooters shooting
down at the gun club

neighbors mowing
fast-growing lawns

robins singing songs
of babies and love

youngsters driving by
too fast

sounds blowing by
on a breeze
bent on taking

and

the tree frogs
are talking
to each other

.

.

.


Apr 26 2017

laying the table
for summer’s picnic

in a brief dawn moment
when i remembered
not to forget

to look down

to notice

three favorite flowers

fritillaria

(a poem in a name)

(a poem of a flower)

and i smiled
all day

.

.

.


Apr 25 2017

how high’s the water, mama?

there are so many things i cannot reach
so many miracles behind glass and
roses i’ll never cultivate
and all these days filled with bugs
and better thans and never enoughs

there is always that sky
through the tall short-lived poplars
growing faster than posterity

there is always a kitten
causing trouble in a field
of grey mice

there is always hope and
disappointment
always love
(that cliche of a word
even poets
can’t define)

and this one
grape hyacinth
growing stubborn
along the road
refusing to care
if i notice

.

.

.


Apr 24 2017

the bones of her face

mirror-moon and barely broken
downward dog and faintly spoken

i am hollow
i am raw
i am forgotten

i am refusal and predication
spitting out bitters
and smiling at wind-loose shutters

this is age and
this is mo(u)rning

and the narcissistic
narcissus
will never reveal
the long-etched key
to revival

.

.

.

 


Apr 23 2017

time passes when
no one is looking

there’s an oak tree
in the brush line
by the driveway

with a branch
that’s been hanging
since the ice storm
of 1991

i remember my sadness
at the damage of trees

i remember being young
and appalled
at life’s cruelty

i remember how
the basement flooded and
the lack of electricity

i remember that my parents
came to stay

it’s been 26 years
and that branch
is still hanging

and i wish i remembered
how to cling with tenacity
to a tree still growing
through bad storm

.

.

.


Apr 22 2017

on the corner of chelsea and 57th

they said youth was the currency
and beauty the price

but we knew better
on the streets
of anarchy

where blossom
was never
as fragile
as ego
and thorn
was the tally
of vice

.

.

.


Apr 21 2017

frills

prom dress pretty
and filled
with fresh hope

the irony
of this tall vase of tulips
primp-sitting
all bare and innocent
amidst kitchen-table clutter
and the convoluted
detritus
of a too-busy week

but these are my days
and no matter how messy

there are always flowers

sometimes fresh

sometimes dying

sometimes too long
past gone
for shame’s sake

always
flowers

always a smile

on a short-sheet friday

and life’s
funny bone
antics

silk purse
sow’s ear
and all that

.

.

.


Apr 20 2017

field of dreams

i live
in the land
of farms

people from
cities
don’t understand
what that
means
(i learned this
from a former
city dweller)

in my world
there is

space

.

.

.

wide field

deep sky

lone tree
standing tall
to guard
corn
wheat
or soy

in the
evening
driving
home

a lone car
on the road
in the
distance

becomes
beacon
for a
journey
never
traveled

.

.

.